


After the Rain

by drfitzmonster



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drfitzmonster/pseuds/drfitzmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting caught in a rainstorm, Angie and Peggy express their feelings for each other for the first time. Peggy helps Angie heal from past traumas she's suffered at the hands of men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Rain

It started like this: on those nights Peggy came home unreasonably late—which was most nights, really—Angie would lie in bed awake, still as glass, and wait for the sound of Peggy’s footsteps on the stairs.  She told herself she was simply worried. After all that had happened at the Griffith and the Automat, Angie knew that Peggy was into something _serious_. The worry is what kept her up at night, then. That made sense. She was just concerned about her friend’s safety. She saw the results of a night on the job, even though Peggy tried to hide the bruises, the limping, and the soreness that caused her to yelp if Angie hugged her too forcefully. She knew, however, that it was not worry making her heart race. Worry did not have Angie constantly thinking about the way Peggy’s hair fell against the curve of her neck, about how soft the skin looked in the crook of her strong arms. Worry did not make Angie relive their last embrace, however chaste, until the ache was too much to bear.

***

On one particularly restless evening Angie decided her worry was reason enough for her to wait up for Peggy. It had been days since she had spoken to Peggy more than briefly in passing. Angie’s need to be near her had finally overwhelmed her fear of her own desires—desires she convinced herself could lie dormant indefinitely.

She retreated to one of the mansion’s sitting rooms with a few magazines and began to idly thumb through them, quickly growing bored. After a while she began to wander from room to room, relishing the way the flooring felt on her bare feet: cold marble in the foyer, a plush rug in the parlor. As she passed one of the many liquor cabinets scattered throughout the mansion, it struck her to pour herself a drink. She rummaged around until she found a brown bottle of something that looked like it might be sweet, and she poured a healthy portion into a crystal tumbler. She recorked the bottle and immediately took a large swig of what turned out to be a pleasant-tasting apple brandy. She drank it swiftly.

After emptying the glass completely and pouring herself another, she returned to floating about the house. She found herself in what she supposed was the library, it being the room with the most books in it. Although, there were several other rooms that would qualify as fine libraries in any other context. The walls in this room were lined floor to ceiling with shelves. Bookshelves jutted out from the walls like outstretched fingers, encroaching into the center of the room. It was glorious. Angie walked around the perimeter of the room methodically, drawing her fingers lightly along the book spines as she went.

***

Book under her arm, she found a chaise in the main parlor that looked inviting and let herself drop gracelessly down onto it. She sighed heavily and cracked open her book. Angie flipped through the fat, heavy tome she had selected, which happened to be a rather dry account of some of the lesser battles of the Crimean War.  She promptly fell asleep, the book open against her chest.

Angie awoke abruptly to the creak and groan of the mansion’s massive front door opening. She heard the staccato clicking of Peggy’s heels on marble and the thud of her briefcase on a table somewhere in the entryway. Angie froze just then, fear and inertia keeping her still. Her eyes shot closed. She could feel when Peggy entered the room, and a quick heat rushed to her skin. Her muscles tensed. She was sure that Peggy would notice the color in her cheeks and that this would give her away. As hard and as long as she had labored to quell her longing, it was with her always.

Peggy was standing over her now. Angie could sense it, feel the static in the air between them. Oh, how she wanted to reach out and touch her! Angie imagined what it might be like if she reached out and caught Peggy’s wrist. What would happen if Angie gently plucked the button at the cuff of Peggy’s blouse open, and ever so slowly pulled the fabric back to expose the tender flesh there. Angie was still, still as she imagined Christ was, draped across his mother’s lap. Angie felt the ghost of Peggy’s fingers brush a strand of hair from her face. The touch was so light it almost could have been the air. Peggy made a small noise. It was a small sigh of sympathy, almost like a hum. A blush rose in Angie’s cheeks, and she held her breath. She felt more laid bare than she ever had before, certain that Peggy could sense her desire.

Angie felt her desire was a physical _thing_ , this burdensome, all-consuming thing that she wore like sackcloth, suffering discreetly as penance for all the times as a teenager her emotions weakened her resolve. If Peggy found out, Angie would be out on the street, certainly, no job and no money. She was paralyzed by her fear. If Peggy could see the truth she would despise Angie, and their burgeoning friendship, fragile and tenuous like a wisp of smoke, would vanish.

There was no hideous moment, however, where the truth was exposed. Peggy simply covered Angie with a blanket, briefly laying her hand on Angie’s shoulder. Peggy carefully, almost reverently—if Angie didn’t know better, tucked the blanket around her neck. And then, she was gone. Angie pulled her knees to her chest, curling in on herself. A few hot tears fell from her eyes. She waited a very long time before she crept back up to her room.

***

Something snapped inside of her the night they got caught in the rain coming back from a picture they’d gone to see together. It was a patriotic, schmaltzy affair that Angie would have found excruciatingly dull, had she been paying attention. Instead, Angie spent the length of the film silently willing Peggy’s arm or knee to brush against hers, just for a moment. When it actually happened Angie winced like she’d been hit.

“You all right, Angie?” Peggy whispered, placing her hand on Angie’s arm.

“Oh, sure, English,” Angie quickly replied, adding, “Just a spasm in my neck, that’s all.” Angie brought her hand to the back of her neck and rubbed to indicate where it hurt.

“You poor dear,” Peggy said, and she placed her hand over Angie’s. Angie immediately dropped her hand from her neck back down to her side. Peggy withdrew her hand and shifted in her seat, turning her attentions back to the film.

***

The rain began to fall in weak spurts while Peggy was driving them back to the mansion. Angie had been chattering absentmindedly, but as the rain began to pelt the car more forcefully, almost like volleys of gunfire, she abruptly quieted and turned to stare out the window. Peggy noticed Angie’s mood darken suddenly but felt it indelicate to disturb her as she was obviously lost in thought. Angie remained silent and pensive the rest of the way.

They arrived at the mansion. Peggy had to call Angie’s name twice before Angie’s focus came back and she realized they’d stopped. Peggy leapt from the car, ready to make a mad dash up the steps to the front door. Angie remained inside, sitting stiffly, clutching her bag to her chest.

“Hey!” Peggy tapped on the passenger window, causing Angie to jump. Peggy yanked the door open and, taking Angie’s arm firmly, coaxed her out of the car. They ran.

Once inside Peggy dropped her bag. Noticing that Angie still gripped hers tightly, Peggy gently wrenched it free from Angie’s grasp and set it next to her own. At that, Angie perked up a bit, and started to shed her coat, which was soaked through completely.

Peggy glanced at their reflection in an ornately-framed mirror, laughing softly. “What a pair we make. We look like a couple of drowned cats. Come help me out of this thing, will you?” Peggy flailed her arm helplessly. The sleeve of her coat had become inextricably pasted to her blouse from the rain.

Angie hesitated, clearing her throat. She walked up behind Peggy woodenly, and grabbed her coat at the shoulders, pulling it down and freeing her from its confines.

Peggy whirled around, giggling. “You saved me.”  

Angie leaned forward and placed her lips to Peggy’s. They stood, only their lips touching, for just a moment before Angie moved back to look Peggy in the face. Angie’s heart was hammering wildly in her chest.

Peggy brought her hand to her lips as if she’d been stung. “Oh,” she quavered.

“Oh, Pegs, no, I’m so sorry. I mean… I didn’t, I shouldn’t have—“

Peggy leaned forward, taking Angie by the waist, and kissed her. It was so tentative, at first. Peggy’s lips were soft and pliant, and Angie could still smell a hint of her perfume—something lavender. Angie parted her lips slightly and allowed Peggy’s tongue to enter her mouth. Angie began to feel lightheaded. It was all too much for her. She broke their kiss and buried her face against Peggy’s neck. Angie found herself trembling uncontrollably, uncertain whether the cold or the flood of emotion left her this way.

“You’re shaking!” Peggy exclaimed. She took Angie’s hand and pressed it to her lips, kissing her fingertips. “My god, you’re so cold.”

“Oh, Peggy,” Angie began. She did not know what else to say. She did not have the words, so she simply rested her forehead on Peggy’s chest.

“It’s okay. I know.” Peggy kissed the top of Angie’s head, breathing in the scent of her hair. She exhaled slowly and said, determined, “Can I take you to bed?”

A heat came over Angie when Peggy uttered those words. Angie lifted her head and met Peggy’s gaze. There was a wild look in Peggy’s eyes that Angie had never seen before. Angie was emboldened. She brought her hand to Peggy’s cheek, ran her thumb along her cheekbone. Angie let out a ragged, uneven breath, “You don’t know what you do to me, English. I’ve never felt like this before.” She blushed.

Peggy pulled Angie’s hand gently away from her face. “It seems,” Peggy paused here to lay a line of kisses from Angie’s hairline, down the bridge of her nose and finally to her mouth, slowly, like a benediction. “That we are similarly afflicted,” Peggy pressed her forehead to Angie’s, eyes downcast. Angie closed the distance between their lips and they began to kiss. Peggy sucked Angie’s bottom lip into her mouth and applied the slightest bit of pressure with her teeth.

Angie moaned into Peggy’s mouth and took hold of her hips, pulling their bodies closer together. “Take me to bed, Peggy.”

****

They stood in Peggy’s bedroom, close but not touching. Peggy reached out for the button at the collar of Angie’s shirt but hesitated, meeting her gaze. “Is this okay?”

Angie looked away, nodding sheepishly, “I want you to touch me.” 

Any doubt in Angie had been completely subsumed by a desire she felt pooling in her abdomen and radiating outward. It was a stronger force than anything she’d yet encountered. There was a sort of magnetism coalescing between them, linking them together. She could no longer speak. All she could do was catch Peggy’s mouth with her own and throw herself into their kissing. Angie kissed Peggy bodily, rolling her hips forward, reaching around to grab at Peggy’s back, desperate for contact. Peggy, in turn, fumbled with the buttons of Angie’s shirt, her fingers numb from the rain.

A low moan escaped from Angie’s throat as she began to grasp and pull at the top of Peggy’s skirt. Angie needed to be close to Peggy, needed skin on skin contact. She needed to feel, to touch and be touched. Angie thirsted, as one thirsts for water, or air. Her knees gave out, and she faltered. Peggy caught her, though, and walked her slowly backward toward the bed. There Peggy laid her down, gently pushing on Angie’s chest until she was reclined against the pillows.

“My sweet girl, you must relax.” Peggy knelt at Angie’s waist and slowly removed the rest of her clothes. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Peggy undressed herself, letting her cold, rain-soaked clothing fall heavily to the floor. She slid into the bed next to Angie. They lay on their sides, facing each other, close enough to feel the warmth from each other’s skin.

Peggy brushed a strand of damp hair out of Angie’s face. “See? It is just us two. There is nothing else.” They began to kiss, slowly at first, but it became increasingly insistent and frenetic. Peggy broke their kiss, placing a finger over Angie’s lips. “You kiss like you’re drowning,” she said.

“Slow,” Peggy kissed Angie’s right eye, and then her left, “down.” They kissed again, but with Peggy determined to set the pace it was calm, languorous. They both became wrapped up in the rhythm of it. Peggy shifted herself so she was atop Angie now, their legs interlocked. They moved together, hips rolling. Angie gasped at the friction of her own sex against Peggy’s leg. A tightness was forming at Angie’s core. She whimpered.

Peggy froze in response to her cry, and looked down at Angie’s face. Angie’s lips were swollen, her lipstick hopelessly smeared. There was something darkly acute behind her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Please don’t stop, Peggy,” she pleaded. “Please…”

Peggy planted kisses along Angie’s neck and collarbone before bringing her mouth to the top of Angie’s breasts. “You are perfect,” Peggy inhaled deeply. Angie smelled of rose perfume and the mineral scent of rain. Peggy drew a line with her tongue down to Angie’s nipple and began laving at it slowly. She reveled in Angie’s breasts, kissing, licking, biting the soft flesh. Peggy rolled a nipple between her fingers while she sucked the other into her mouth, spearing it with her tongue. Peggy continued until Angie was gasping and squirming, back arched, fists clenching handfuls of bedsheet.

“Oh, god!” Angie exclaimed. The tightness at her core was increasing. She felt the thrum of something beneath her skin, almost like electricity. It was intoxicating. Angie needed Peggy. She needed Peggy’s hands on her body. She needed to feel her weight, her warmth. They began to kiss again with wanton clumsiness. Angie explored Peggy’s body with her hands. She was tentative at first, running her fingers along Peggy’s arm from wrist to elbow to shoulder. Peggy’s skin was soft and yielding, dusted with fine hairs. 

Angie was utterly unprepared for the intensity of the feelings she was having. She’d never felt anything remotely close, and she’d certainly never felt anything but revulsion for sex. One of her only experiences with it had occurred when she was a teenager. On a cold, rainy afternoon Marco, a boy from school, gave her a ride, but instead of taking her home he parked his car down a darkened alleyway and forced himself on her. She remembered most vividly the pungence of his cologne, the tinny pounding of the rain on the roof of the car. He was so heavy. He shoved her against the passenger door. The handle jabbed into her spine so hard she cried out, but he would not relent. She blacked out shortly after that.

The first thing she felt when she came to was an unbearable stabbing pain. He was inside her. She thought, disgustedly, that she should have fought him harder. Why hadn’t she fought harder? She couldn’t breathe. His body pressed so heavily on her chest that her lungs couldn’t properly expand. Angie started to slip into unconsciousness again. She overcame it, however, sucking air into her lungs as heavily as she could. She bit him on the arm, drawing blood, and it distracted him long enough for her to free her hand and jam the heel of her palm into his nose. He roared in pain and she was able to squirm out from under him. She threw the car door open and ran. She ran blindly into the rain, ignoring the stinging raindrops that needled her face and arms. Her ruined dress gaped open at the top, where Marco had ripped it.

She saw him at school the next day with a broken nose and two black eyes. He told everyone a group of thugs beat him up and stole his wallet. After that she never let another man get anywhere near—

“Angie!” Peggy’s voice pierced the fog Angie had drifted into.

“Hmm?” Angie blinked.

“Where did you go? You just… stopped.”

Angie could not look at her. She curled her body into Peggy’s, hiding her face against Peggy’s chest. Peggy hooked her index finger under Angie’s chin and gently raised it up until the two women were looking into each other’s eyes. Angie’s eyes were red and teary, eyelashes plastered together. Peggy put her hand against Angie’s cheek, wiping away a tear with her thumb.

“Tell me,” Peggy said firmly, “please.”

And so Angie told her about the way he smelled, and the sound of the rain. She told her about how strong he was, and how she thought he would crush her.

“I always thought it was my fault.  Like I deserved it because I didn’t fight him hard enough. I let him do that to me.”

“It is _not_ your fault,” Peggy declared, squeezing Angie’s hand tightly. “He preyed upon you. He violated and betrayed you,” Peggy was near fuming. Her eyes were fiery and her jaw set squarely. “ _He_ did this. _He_ is to blame.”

 Angie leaned forward and Peggy wrapped her in an embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy said, rocking Angie gently. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, my sweet girl.” Peggy kissed the top of Angie’s head. A sudden realization caused Peggy’s face to darken. “Oh, god—I pressured you. You weren’t ready.”

“No,” Angie replied. She had never felt as safe and secure as she did right at that moment. She felt encased, impervious. She felt nothing but a fierce sense of longing for Peggy. “Help me forget.” Angie took Peggy’s hand and slowly moved it to her breast. “Please,” she entreated.

Peggy spent the next several hours singularly devoted to Angie’s pleasure. She propped herself on her elbows between Angie’s legs and lapped at her sex, bringing Angie to a devastating orgasm that left her panting and empty-headed. Before Angie could properly recover Peggy began again, running her tongue along Angie’s center, sucking at her clit. Without truly being conscious of it, Angie began to grind herself into Peggy’s face. Peggy groaned softly and redoubled her efforts, spurred on by Angie’s enthusiasm. Peggy stopped, however, when she felt Angie’s hand pushing firmly on her shoulder. Peggy looked up to see that Angie’s eyes were glassy, her pupils dilated.

“Come here,” she pulled Peggy back up toward the head of the bed.

They kissed then, forcefully, sloppily, as Peggy reached out and drew Angie closer to her. They quickly became wrapped up in a steady undulating rhythm, pressing their bodies together.

Abruptly, Angie stopped their kissing and spoke breathlessly against Peggy’s mouth. “Put your fingers inside me. _Please_.”

Peggy’s gaze snapped up to Angie’s face, uncertainty causing her brow to furrow. She studied Angie’s expression. She saw fear, but there was also something willful and steadfast there, a stubbornness Peggy had come to admire.

“It’s ok,” Angie said softly. “I know you won’t hurt me.” She brought her hand to the side of Peggy’s face and then kissed her tenderly.

Peggy hesitated, but then slowly snaked her hand down Angie’s body, stopping when she was gingerly cupping Angie’s mons. Peggy began to rub her palm against Angie’s sex, all the while watching her face closely to gauge her reaction. Angie began to buck her hips into Peggy’s hand.

She clutched at Peggy’s arm, “Please.”

Peggy obliged, curling her index finger into Angie’s core. Angie, for her part, was hormone-drunk and buzzing, absorbed by the sensation of Peggy’s finger inside her. Peggy thrust her hips forward, driving her finger into Angie up to the hilt. Angie threw her head back as Peggy began to pump in and out of her. Angie felt so wonderful inside, warm and wet, and Peggy could feel the muscles clench around her finger.

Peggy teased pleasure out of Angie, bringing her to the edge and keeping her there until she whined pitifully and canted her hips forward. Finally, Peggy gave Angie the relief she sought, rubbing her clit vigorously with her thumb and quickly stroking the bumpy ridge of flesh inside her. Angie came. She shuddered violently, broken moans escaping from her mouth.

Peggy did not stop, then. She was determined to make Angie come as many times as she would allow. She initiated cautiously each time anew, waiting for Angie to indicate her consent before she began their lovemaking in earnest.

For the rest of the night Peggy fucked her gently but desperately, hell bent on obliterating Angie’s past trauma. Inebriated by desire, Peggy imagined their passion could burn the memories to ash, and the both of them would emerge anew, cleansed in the fires.

***

Peggy had seen many horrors during the war. She saw men shipped home missing limbs or their sanity, men shipped home in flag-draped coffins. There was a particular look that a soldier had, one who had seen too much and had still come out on the other side. When Angie awoke the next morning and sat bolt upright in the bed, gasping for breath, Peggy recognized the terror behind her eyes. Angie was, in a word, haunted.

Angie’s eyes darted around the room, and once she realized she was safe in bed with Peggy, her face softened. She met Peggy’s gaze, and upon seeing the concern in her face, lowered her head, embarrassed. “Sometimes I have nightmares.”

“Me too.” Peggy kissed Angie’s forehead and drew her into a firm embrace.

They lay, legs intertwined, for some time, drifting quietly in and out of sleep.  Angie awoke, pleasantly and gradually this time. She began to idly trace patterns on Peggy’s back. Angie’s fingers halted at two faint, dime-sized dimples over Peggy’s shoulder blade, about an inch and a half apart. She let the tips of her middle and index fingers rest gingerly in the shallow, slightly puckered, but almost indistinguishable, depressions.

***

“This one?” Peggy traced a faint, almost imperceptible line above Angie’s lip.

Angie blushed. “Father Francis caught me kissing Carlotta Rosati out behind the gym. He said he was going to beat the Devil out of me.”

“Oh, my love,” Peggy said with a pained expression. She ran her finger over the scar, then kissed it once, softly.

“Do you know what Marco said to me, before he…” Angie trailed off here, pausing to take a deep breath. “He said Father Francis told him I was a bulldagger, and that he should try to ‘fix’ me and save my soul.”  

“What a monster,” Peggy growled, as a rage roiled inside her. She thought of the man she threatened with a fork at the automat, and how she’d like to do much more than that to these men who hurt Angie.

“Father Francis didn’t think it worked because he tried to fix me himself after that, said he shouldn’t have sent a boy to do a man’s job,” Angie looked down at her hands, unable to maintain eye contact. “I didn’t let him,” she said resolutely. “I punched him in the gut so hard his glasses came right off his face.”

“He deserves much worse than that.” Peggy slowly clenched and unclenched her fists. She was willing herself not to cry. This was Angie’s pain, she had no right to shed tears over this, not when Angie could see, anyway.

“He’s dead now. If I believed in Hell I’d think that’s where he was.”

“I’ve seen Hell, Angie. Hell is war. Hell is what those men did to you.”

“I went to his funeral. I wanted to, just to make sure he was really gone.” Angie shook her head as if she were trying to shake a particularly potent image from her mind. “Everyone thought I was crying because it was a tragedy such a good, Godly man had died, but I wasn’t. I was crying because I was relieved.”

***

That morning they ate breakfast at a small table in the kitchen even though there was a large, finely-appointed formal dining room in the house. They both found the flourishes on the elaborately-carved mahogany dining table and some of the other pieces in the room to be a bit garish. It was too grandiose, the teardrop chandelier ostentatious.

They much preferred the simple oak table by the kitchen window that looked out onto the courtyard garden. It was graced at its center by a small reflecting pool and a bronze statue of the goddess Diana. She stood, nude, feet apart, her bow drawn back. Her hunting dogs were by her side, as taut as her bow string, ready to run. Diana’s body was well muscled and lean, her arms especially well defined. _Just like Peggy’s arms_ , Angie thought.

“I used to carry a switchblade everywhere I went,” Angie said casually, as Peggy set a plate of beans on toast in front of her. She rubbed her eyes and stretched before grabbing her fork to poke suspiciously at her food. “This something you used to eat back home, English?”

“As a matter of fact, It is,” Peggy said primly before she turned and retrieved a pan from the stovetop. She scooped a fried egg onto each of their plates and then sat down with a satisfied sigh. “Now, what were you saying about a switchblade?”

“I used to carry one.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

“Not usually. Unless I go out alone at night. Or when it’s raining.” The night, to be honest, was not so bad. She was only slightly panicky at night. It was the rain that really did her in. Rain made fear clutch at her heart and her chest seize up.

“Raining?” Peggy said, almost to herself. “Oh… the rain,” She felt a pang of sorrow as she thought of what the rain had become to Angie. Peggy reached and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, love.”

“Nah, it’s ok, Pegs.” She bit back whatever emotions had bubbled up. “I was just saying that I carried that knife with me every single day, slept with it under my pillow, starting the day Father Francis tried to _fix_ me.”

Peggy brought Angie’s hand up to her mouth and kissed her knuckles.

“Do you know when I stopped carrying it?”

Peggy said nothing, but raised her eyebrows and leaned forward in question.

“The day I moved in this house with you.”


End file.
